Get Out
SARAH
I want to tell him.
God, I want to just say it, to spit it out and let it break the air between us. I want to stop carrying its weight on my own. But the words won’t come. They’re stuck, trembling just behind my teeth.
I stare at him, at the pain in his eyes, and all I can say is, “You don’t want to know.”
“I do,” he says instantly, “I want to know everything, baby. I need to.”
I shake my head slowly, eyes dropping to our hands. His thumb moves in soft circles against my skin, and it’s the gentlest thing I’ve felt in a long, long time.
“I was weak Dad,” I whisper. “I haven't been the strong daughter you raised, the daughter you wanted me to be.”
He goes completely still.
“I stopped recognising myself,” I continue, still not looking at him. “At first, I thought I could handle it, thought I could endure it. It was supposed to be a duty. But then… it became something else. Something worse. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn't handle it.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“I kept thinking, this is for my family. This is what he asked of me. This is what will make him proud. So I stayed. I swallowed it all. I didn’t tell anyone. Because I knew, I knew… if I called you, you wouldn’t come.”
“No,” he says, anguish in his voice. “No, don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth,” I say flatly. “You weren’t there. Not for the loniless. Not for the longing. You didn’t see how I broke down piece by piece, until I didn’t know who I was anymore. Until I hated myself.”
He breathes like someone who’s just taken a bullet to the chest.
“I couldn’t cry, because crying wasn’t allowed. Not the daughter of a Sullivan. Not for the wife of Cullen Cincinnati.”
My father holds my hand tighter, his eyes glistening with a new kind of desperation, this time not from guilt, but from resolve.
"Tell me the truth, baby," he says again, his voice quieter now but more intense. "Don’t protect anyone. Not anymore. Just tell me. Who hurt you?"
I stare at him, blinking through the fresh layer of tears that cloud my vision. I stare at the desperation etched into every line of his face. His words echo in my head, but they feel distant. He wants to know. And part of me wants to tell him. But the other part, the one still wrapped in shame, won’t let the words come out.
My lips part, then close again.
“Hey,” he says softly, brushing a thumb under my eye, wiping a tear that never fully fell. “You don’t have to rush. But I want you to know… you’re not alone anymore. I’m here. Fully. Not halfway, not from afar. I’m here.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I finally say, my voice barely audible.
“Start anywhere.”
I swallow hard and look down at our hands, his so large, strong… mine trembling, small inside his.
“I don’t even know if it was one moment or a thousand small ones that brought me here,” I begin, voice cracking. “It wasn’t just Cullen. I mean, he never hurt me, not with his hands, not with insults. But he wasn’t there. Not really.”
My father nods, listening.
“He came home late. Left early. Barely looked at me. And when he did… it was like I was a mistake. He never raised his voice. But he hurt me much worse than physically.”
I feel his hand squeeze mine, grounding me.
“And then… the loneliness,” I whisper. “It became its own kind of poison. At first, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was temporary. That things would get better. That he’d come around. But weeks turned to months. And every time I tried to reach for him, he… just wasn’t there.”
I pause.
“ He went beyond himself to show that I meant nothing, to prove I wasn't worth anything and I think in the end he must have succeeded..... That’s when I started drinking,” I admit. “I wasn’t trying to escape. I think… I was just trying to feel something. Anything. The numbness was worse than the pain.”
My father’s jaw clenches, his eyes rimmed red, but he doesn’t interrupt.
Then, I whisper, “Cullen....”
My father's eyes widened as he said, “Cullen … he did this to you? He’s the one who did this to you?” he shouted, his nose flaring. He was furious, angry, his hands clenched into fists.
I shook my head. “No. No, no.”
“Then what?” he asked. But my eyes were on the door.
Cullen was standing there, in front of it, looking at me. I didn’t know if he had heard everything I’d said, because I had been too much in my own head, too deep in my memories. But when I looked up, I just saw him standing there looking pale, white.
My father turned around and saw Cullen, and he got even angrier.
“What are you doing in here?” he shouted at him. “I told you to stay out until I talked to her. I needed to know how she was feeling and if she was ready to see you!” he roared, his emotions spilling everywhere.
Cullen said calmly, “I am her husband. I deserve to be in here too. I also want to know what happened to her. She is my wife. It's my job to protect her....”
But before he could finish his sentence, my father had already let go of my hand, already off the bed, charging toward him.
“No, Dad, stop!” I shouted. “Please don’t hurt him,” I cried.
My father stopped, turned to look at me, and said, “I’m not going to hurt him, honey.”
Then he turned back. “Cullen, just get out.”
“No,” Cullen said, still stubborn... still the stubborn man he was in my memories. “I’m not leaving.”
But I didn’t want to see Cullen. Not right now. Not after everything. He was not my husband. I didn’t want to be his wife. Not anymore. I didn’t want this anymore. This hurt. This loneliness. This pain.
So I said the words I should have said.
“Cullen, please leave.”
His eyes, which had been focused on my father, now turned toward me with a disbelieving look on his face.
“What?” he asked.
“Just go, Cullen. Get out. I don’t want to see you.” I said my voice was stronger with my decision made this time.
“You can’t possibly mean that, Sarah. We’ve spent so much time…” As he said this, he started walking toward me.
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